


A Grudge in Yellow

by Nelja-in-English (Nelja)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), F/M, Mindfuck, Non-Human Genitalia, Revenge, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-10-29 09:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20794301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/pseuds/Nelja-in-English
Summary: Something is coming after Gertrude for revenge. She doesn't find it that impressive.





	A Grudge in Yellow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HotGoatCheese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotGoatCheese/gifts).

It's a dark night, clouds racing across the sky, hiding the half-moon in turns, like tongues trying to lick it until there's nothing left. Gertrude has a healthy caution of the dark, but a half-hidden moon and feeble street lights are well enough for her.

There are footsteps before her - slow, heavy, deliberate ones - and an unpleasant smell. It could be anything. A drunk teenager, a mundane robber, or a monster. She stops, looks behind her. Nothing, and the sound stops, but it starts again as soon as she walks again.

She could try to Know, or she could try to find a solution that would ensure she wins anyway. She has a lighter and insecticide in her bag, that could make for an improvised flamethrower, but if it's just a stupid human seeing an easy victim in an old lady, it would be a bit of overkill.

There's a pub in the street that seems still open. There's some muffled punk music escaping from it, yellow light through a smoked glass in the door. She thinks about opening it and preparing for whatever could happen. She almost does it.

Almost.

"Yellow door, hm?" she said, turning back again to the invisible spot where the sounds come from. "You really tried."

The monster that steps out of the shadow is tall and pointy. He has hair so curly that it spirals to infinity, and the face of Michael Shelley. It used to be soft. It no longer is, though the shape is exactly the same.

"Open it," it says. It's Michael's voice, but twisted, accented in all the wrong places. And then it opens its hand. His fingers are sharp and incredibly long. One of them rests on Gertrude's throat, and she forces herself not to recoil. "We should have a private conversation together, Gertrude."

"Thanks for the offer," she answers with feigned politeness, her heart beating too fast for her age. "We can talk here. I suppose you are angry at me for derailing your ritual?"

"How did you guess?" The thing smiles. It looks cruel and happy. Michael never was cruel and was rarely happy. Of course, she won't pretend any of this was good for him.

Gertrude feels the thing's finger pierce the skin, and the warmth of the blood trickling on her neck. She ignores it.

"I know more than that about you," she answers. "I know you have lost most of your power. I know that as long as I don't pass this door, you can make me feel like all kinds of awful things are happening to me, but it won't harm me unless I believe it. I have fought quite a few monsters, and you're far from the most frightening."

"You'll still feel pain," it answers.

She laughs. "I'm quite used to it. Come on, the sooner you start, the faster you'll get bored with it."

"I hate you," it says. “It’s weird, having a feeling. _I_ really hate _you_.”

She tries to look it in the eyes. It's not easy. His eyes are at their right place in his face, but they're still too big to be seen whole at the same time, full of fractal details, similar but never alike, trying to draw her in. Trying to make her think all this really exists.

She's weak enough to close her eyes when it pretends to kiss her. It only gives it more latitude to make her see.

It's a whirlwind of garish colours and discordant sounds and pain in body parts no human is meant to have. It feels so real, like the nature of the universe, a secret well-kept, but Gertrude knows better than this. She doesn't look at the secret letters, doesn't listen to the distorted holy songs, and even the pain - it's like nightmare pain, only remotely imitated, without consequences, and she has felt so much worse.

She can't say she's happy when her body feels like hers again, when the monster's false body curls against her, presses her against the door she wanted to avoid. 

It's going to be alright, she thinks, he can't open it.

She hates that she called it "he".

It's naked - not exactly, she can't see its body, but she can't see any clothes either - and its pointy physical form is tearing at her long skirt.

And her clothes aren't even actually torn, except if she lets it happen.

It's hard to remember this, though, when a spiry appendage crawls between her legs.

She should take it as a victory, shouldn't she? It consented to leave her part of reality, the street and her body, it compromised. Probably, keeping her in an illusion calls for more power than he can give; she feels less and less that it took Michael’s form to provoke her and more and more that it’s stuck with it. She could laugh out loud if she had not known the boy. 

But she should be even more cautious, even stronger, to make herself feel certain none of this is real, that she has nothing to do with any fear or shame. She opens her eyes again.

Its face now looks like Michael's face. Not only the features, but it looks round and innocent and naive and cute. And even as it's still trapping them against the door, squeezing her arms and invading her insides, its grip is hard but its skin is soft.

"Do you remember Michael Shelley?" It asks. "I remember when I was Michael Shelley, even if I don't like it one bit. He hated me so much, for how his friend suffered and died, and then he was me. Do you know? he hates you too, now, maybe even more than I do."

The voice - it's no longer distorted, exactly Michael's voice. Gertrude doesn't like it. But she likes none of the current situation any better. She’s just waiting for it to be over.

"You didn't enjoy it that much when you let him fuck you," it answers. "You wanted to make him more in your debt, didn't you? To be able to use him better?"

And then - eyes opened or closed, this doesn't change a thing, this is even close to making her forget if they're open - she sees that night with Michael. She didn't mean to hurt him - well, of course she did, but she didn't sleep with him to hurt him. He was taken with her, and he was nice-looking, and...

"You despised him and wanted to get rid of him."

It's true that Gertrude thought that him dying soon would avoid the complications of a relationship. He was the kind of sweet that she could appreciate better for a short time.

She had thought at the time that she made him happy. He kissed her awkwardly, and she petted his clean and soft hair. She was not here for acrobatics and she liked that he didn't offer, just fumbling with his clothes and hers. He had nice, big hands. He didn't recoil seeing her wrinkled skin, and at her age, Gertrude had to appreciate this. 

"You used him like a toy, and you didn't hide that it was not your favorite one."

He was fast, but he was tender, it was an overall enjoyable sensual experience, and it's not her fault nor his if Gertrude didn't actually come. What was she meant to do, simulate an orgasm?

"Of course one more lie would have been the final straw," it keeps going, still Michael's voice but with a mocking tone he'd never had, with her at least, and probably never. "You betrayed me and you ruined my life and I despise you so much."

And then the pleasant feeling soars, and the pain too, and Gertrude realizes with shock that she believed this last sentence fully.

It's harder to get back out once you're in _spirals of pain and shiny blood falling from your insides and the buttery taste of betrayal_ but she tries to grit her _fingers that should be teeth and teeth that should be fingers_ and she absolutely won't make any move that could open any door. The pain is false but sharper than ever and the pleasure is false and she's not sure she has a body but she can still refuse to move whatever she is now.

She manages to find the words, to think with her mouth, to say with her brain. "I don't hate you. You lost already. You could have killed me for one moment. But you wanted me through this door that much."

And then she's only talking to the monster; if Michael was ever here, she scared him away. Poor boy. He deserved the mercy of full death, for saving the world. But no one gets what they deserve in this world. Gertrude has no plan to get what she deserves until she has finished all of her work.

It leaves. It did get bored, or satisfied. Probably the first one. Gertrude can only congratulate herself for her ability to be very boring.

She's bleeding from a long internal superficial gash, but the flow is weak. She will heal with rest and antibacterial ointment. It's almost nothing. After all, the monster tried to attack her with _guilt_, and if asked, she would have thought the damage would show even less.


End file.
